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Meaningless! Meaningless! and when you search for the meaning of creation a beach umbrella takes flight, a needle is inserted between vertebrae from cowering to exaltation Navy lined the white climb of myrtle Nylon sheathed the sun as gulls circled for broken bread Yellow eyed the rabbit-eaten iris while Riptide took Indigo’s hand Ocean wore her rings inherited from the low open shore Sage bowed to a castle swept from exaltation to cowering and when you search for the meaning of creation a child is born in the hospital, a mother is impaled in the sand Twenty-two Cherry Blossoms on the train to Baltimore I see twenty-two cherry blossom trees a slow Saturday at the airport, six metal pillars where I would wait for her six men to my right where they would wait to wheel passengers in blue chairs I drink her gin and tonic, I spend too much on dinner we talk on how our perceptions of God and my lack of housekeeping caused the break in her rented blue Ford she kisses my cheek having driven me through light-bearing Baltimore I see two petals on the door of the last train out Josh Gaydos (he him) currently resides in Washington, D.C. His work has appeared in Barren Magazine, Roi Faineant Press, DIAGRAM, Door Is A Jar Literary Magazine, and Stone Circle Review. He can be found on Instagram at @jgwrites22.

My father knew how the system worked; how it fed its subjects and ground their bones. He saw himself as a practical philosopher of the cold, hard world. To save me, he taught the choreography of survival: the proper tilt of the chin, the measured depth of a nod. "Refrain from using venomous words," he'd say. "They poison the air where beauty still breathes." He wanted me to move within the invisible lines. I tried to absorb his wisdom, but my spirit wouldn't settle. I stayed fractured, unfinished. He saw weakness where I was forging something else, mistook the quiet work of character for youth and frailty. He explained, love doesn’t depart but its language is made of rules and discipline. Silence itself is a razor-edged blade that can cleave any soul. Beauty still exists, although it stands behind a veil. It offers its hand only to those who approach without demands. In a world that must measure everything, love remains brief, and guarded. J.S. O’Keefe's work spans short stories, essays, and poems. They have been featured in a variety of publications, including AntipodeanSF, Roi Faineant, 101 Words, Everyday Fiction, Spillwords, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, 50 Word Stories, ScribesMicro, Dissident Voice, 50GT, etc.

Spirals I. II. III.

The Set Of All Things contains the Ocean, and perhaps that is the only set large enough. Or so it appears sitting out here on the boat, the water empty from horizon to horizon. The wind tugs at the sail, just enough to keep way on. Daniela’s at the stern of the boat, keeping an eye on the wheel, and I’m at the prow, looking out. As far from each other as we can get on the boat. Not because we’ve argued, but to take a bit of time. Before we get sick of each other. We’ll talk again at supper time, or if we need to alter the rig. But for now, as the sun makes it’s slow way to the sea, we’ll keep our distance. The Set Of Supernatural Events incudes blessings and curses, the divine, the diabolic, and much stranger things. It seems as though we’ve been sailing out here forever, since the waters were divided from the land. Time is strictly a natural phenomenon, and our perception can be stretched by our experiences. Still, something is out of joint. This is Angel Deep, where an angel fell into the ocean. That happened when a Spanish Galleon passed by, it happened during World War 2, seen by a flight of Avengers who had strayed off course, it had happened last year when a climate research vessel had lingered, and it had happened last night while Daniela and I had watched from the deck of the boat. It had happened once and it had happened many times. Time seems to stretch. The ocean, the angel or just the experience of sitting here, looking out over the water. Impossible to know. The Set of Lost Things is infinite but bounded. Lost words, lost days and nights. Lost ships, lost sailors, lost islands and deserts and rain lands. A lost angel. Lost boats? I can’t remember when we last saw land. When we last spoke to anyone. We get the weather reports from the satellite, but that’s all. We’re not lost – we know where we are on the great blank map of ocean. It’s the rest of the world that’s lost. Though the map is not blank. We’ve crossed from the ocean floor, already deep enough to sink a hill, over to the Angel Deep. Below us is deeper than any mountain, deep enough that no one has ever been down there. The kind of depth that crushes robots, drinks up probes. The wind drops, joining the Set Of Lost Things it seems. I turn and lower the sail, Daniela securing the boat. With the way off her she bobs gently in the swell. Just sea and sky and us in between. Perhaps the Angel Deep has no bottom. Infinite and unbounded, part of the Set Of Supernatural Events. A column of water never ending, the pressure increasing unimaginably. The Set Of Entities in the ocean includes fish and turtles, algae and floating rafts of weed. It includes the boat and, as I slip in, it includes me. Floating between sky and abyss, sound muted. The shadow of the boat and the slight pad as Daniela walks the deck to watch for me. All else is still, motionless. Here in the centre of the ocean the categories dissolve, logic unravels, leaving only peace. Neil Willcox lives in South East England where he twice failed to get the most basic sailing certificate. Unqualified as a sailor he has turned to writing, with pieces published by Kaleidotrope, Swords And Sorcery Magazine and Malarkey Books, as well as editing non-fiction for Voidspace Press.

One morning, before his shift started, a curious thing happened to Niles Campbell. As he stored his belongings away in his locker, he saw, in the adjoining corridor, walking alongside a group of high-ranking officials, his exact double, a man of similar age (forty-four), height (approximately five-foot-eight), build (resoundingly average), possessed of the same physical attributes: short, neat hair greying at the sides, a rounded not unattractive face and slightly prominent nose (all the more visible, as this man, Campbell’s seeming doppelganger, was then walking side-on to the staff changing rooms). Thinking it no more than a coincidence, a vision trick, the play of light as much as the relative distance involved, Campbell closed his locker and commenced with his daily work duties on the factory floor. Only this wasn’t the sole sighting of the man in question. Periodically, over the next few days, Campbell could’ve sworn that he saw his lookalike on half a dozen or more occasions: in the staff canteen, entering the physical aptitude testing unit, exercising in the communal recreation area, on the factory floor itself, even passing in the back of the Chief Directorate’s official car. And whilst these were only fleeting glimpses, the more Campbell saw of this man, the more he was convinced of their similarity, that he was looking at the very same face he saw in the bathroom mirror each morning. This became so disconcerting, he couldn’t help but bring the matter to the attention of a colleague, fellow G-Sector manual operative Shaun Rivera. “I don’t want to worry you unduly,” said Rivera, in the kind of grave tones that could only ever unnerve, “but there have been some worrying noises coming out of HR recently regarding the corporation’s new recruitment policy. In a word, I’ve heard talk of them trialling new advanced forms of artificial intelligence.” “Artificial intelligence?” “That’s right. In the next twelve to eighteen months, those bastards are looking to completely phase out human operatives from all manual tasks. Any worker not reaching their designated work targets will be the first to go. And again, not to worry you unduly, but you almost certainly fall into that category, and you are almost certainly at risk of being dismissed from your post. Or worse.” Rivera’s revelations troubled Campbell for the rest of the day, proving so distracting that he assembled two circuit boards in error, one after the other, causing a significant delay on the production line, and was told to report to the Chief Directorate’s office immediately. “Your workstation has been temporarily closed,” said the computer-generated voice in his implanted earpiece. “You will not be able to recommence your official duties until full authorisation has been received from your direct superiors.” *** “Now, Campbell,” said the Chief Directorate, “we both know why you’ve been summoned here today, don’t we? For some time now, your substandard work performance has come to my attention. As you are well aware, we live in a highly competitive age, where market forces dictate. If we don’t operate at optimum capacity in every department, we will fall behind our competitors.” Whilst of slight build and advancing years, Peterson was still an incredibly intimidating figure; a stern, unflinching monolith who perfectly represented the corporation’s motto: Aggressive Innovation Through Consistent Excellence. He continued, “More to the point, new labour laws have recently been enacted allowing the more sizable conglomerates, those with a leading role to play in the development, production, and sustainability of food and energy resources to develop a more productive and sustainable workforce. For that reason, you should consider yourself lucky. If, a few months ago, I had been handed a productivity chart like yours, you would have faced immediate decommissioning, perhaps even liquidation. But now, due to the incredible advances our research facility has made in the development of synthetic human technologies, you have been granted a reprieve, an opportunity to wrestle your fate back into your own hands.” “I don’t quite understand, Chief Directorate, sir, I –” The much older man raised a hand, gesturing for quiet. “Oh, but you will, Campbell, believe me.” Through a side door, two white-coated laboratory technicians entered the room. “You would like us to commence with the demonstration now, Chief Directorate?” one asked, casting a quick, uncertain glance over his shoulder, as if something fearful and unwelcome was pursuing him. “Of course, gentlemen. We must debrief our subject here. Full implementation of our programme starts this very day.” Bowing respectfully, the two technicians ushered what initially appeared, and was soon verified as a perfect representation of Campbell himself, the kind of synthetic human the Chief Directorate had described a few minutes ago, dressed in the same official corporation coveralls, replete with logo and nametag affixed to corresponding breast pockets. “Behold.” The Chief Directorate got to his feet. “Amazing, isn’t it? A state-of-the-art replicant, identical down to the last physical, emotional, and intellectual detail.” As unnerved as he was by this development, Campbell couldn’t help but feel a peculiar fascination towards this synthetic version of himself, in perhaps the same way a person is fascinated by their own reflection when certain physical changes occur: the aging process, new lines and wrinkles upon the face, a bruise, scar, pustule, permanent or temporary, significant or minor disfigurement. In terms of likeness, it was perfect in every respect. It even had a shadowing of stubble upon the face, which Campbell invariably displayed, no matter how close the proximity to his latest shave. “What is your name, official job title, and place of residence?” the Chief Directorate asked the Replicant. “Niles Campbell. Manual operative. G-Sector. Currently, I reside above Facility B, room number 132.” “Good,” said the Chief Directorate, returning to Campbell. “As you can see, everything is in fine working order. We have created a fully functioning synthetic representation of employee Niles Campbell. Namely yourself. Only this particular replicant of the Wallace 300 Series is, at present, somewhat of a blank canvas. Whilst, as aforementioned, possessed of your level of intelligence, emotional capacity, basic memory recall, the unit lacks the hands-on, day-to-day work experience you have acquired over the last thirteen years. To gain that experience, to put its abilities to best use, we need this model to shadow you for the next three weeks, for you to mentor it, passing on the technical skills required to perform your duties to the highest possible standard. Only then will it be ready for full deployment.” “Wait,” said Campbell. “Let me get this straight. For the next twenty-one days, I have to work with this, erm…replicant. I have to give it on-the-job training, the skills to ultimately replace me?” “Why of course.” The Chief Directorate smirked knowingly. “Then, at the end of that period, whoever is more productive will continue in post, and the other operative will be liquidated. So, see this as a challenge, not an exercise in inevitability. Even though you have little or no chance of outperforming your Double here, you have been given a unique opportunity to help advance society. Your name will enter the history books, you will be seen as a true pioneer, someone prepared to sacrifice themselves for the greater good. “For now, go back to your living space and get some sleep. You need all the rest you can get.” He grinned and rubbed his hands together. “But I’m sure you’ll get on fine. I’m sure you’ll find this an enlightening and rewarding experience, no matter what the outcome.” The next morning, the Replicant was waiting for Campbell in the staff changing room. Dressed in the same crisp, laundered corporate coveralls as yesterday, it displayed stiff, formal characteristics, a distinct unnaturalness, despite its strikingly human appearance. Evidently, it had been allocated the locker next to Campbell’s. “I see that employees place personal belongings in this storage facility.” The Replicant pointed to Campbell’s shoulder bag. “Is this a requirement, or merely a security measure? If the former, I would be grateful if you would enlighten me as to the contents of your own personal receptacle." The Replicant’s voice resembled Campbell’s so closely he couldn’t help but feel unnerved. “Okay.” He unfastened the shoulder-bag and took out a dog-eared paperback book, sketchpad, pencils, an apple, and a high-energy breakfast bar. Taking each item and turning it over in his hands, the Replicant blinked in confusion. “I do not understand why you would bring such random items into the workplace. Why read made-up stories in this antiquated format when you have sophisticated e-readers containing literature crucial to the continued success of the corporation? And why sketch the factory floor and your colleagues like this? Granted, you have a keen eye, are a more than proficient draughtsman, someone who could easily obtain a position in the technical drawing department, thus becoming a far more valuable, less expendable commodity.” “I love to read, to sketch, always have done, ever since childhood. These are what we call hobbies, things we like to do outside of work.” “Outside of work?” The Replicant looked even more confused. “And why would you bring food items with you? We are allocated three meals a day in the staff canteen, are we not?” Campbell shrugged. “Sometimes I get peckish around half-past ten, eleven o’clock time.” “But this is a designated work period. Taking time to satisfy your hunger would surely not be permitted, especially when there are manual tasks to undertake.” “Not really. Due to the stop/start nature of the production line, there are often short periods of time where there’s nothing to do. During which I might eat an apple or read a few pages of my book, or even doodle in my sketchpad.” There was an awkward pause. “It is of no importance,” said the Replicant. “I assume this is a quirk, an idiosyncrasy, something which Wallace 300 units of my classification have been tasked with eradicating from daily life.” When they reached their work station, Campbell walked the Replicant through his daily duties. “If you’d like to stand on the other side of the belt conveyor.” He pointed. “I’ll demonstrate exactly what is required of you.” On the slow-moving belt conveyor were partially assembled circuit boards. All Campbell had to do was affix a crucial micro-chip into a space provided, check that it was fully functioning – swiping it across a sensor – then place the completed circuit board back on the belt conveyor for packaging in another department. This he demonstrated, assembling, removing, and then reassembling one circuit board in particular. “It’s not very challenging work, I’m afraid.” “I find that hard to believe,” said the Replicant, after completing its first circuit board. “For surely exceeding your daily work quotas is a powerful motivator.” “Erm, yes, there’s always that, I suppose.” Within a few short minutes, the Replicant was working at such an astonishing rate that Campbell started to not only fear for his future but question why the Chief Directorate had felt this whole charade necessary. Clearly, the Replicant had been specifically designed to perform such duties far faster than any human being ever could, no matter how skilled, experienced, or motivated. “And we can work right up until our designated break?” the Replicant asked, mid-morning. “That’s right,” Campbell replied. “Four whole uninterrupted hours at a time.” In the staff canteen at lunchtime, Campbell felt compelled to ask the Replicant a question. “A few days ago, I saw you for the first time in the corridor outside the staff changing room. You were with the Chief Directorate. What have you been doing in the interim? – training, testing? If so, how long have you actually been, erm…how can I put this? – deployed at the facility?” “In this form, I have been in active service for approximately twenty-six months.” “I see,” he said, slowly letting the information sink in. “If that’s the case, then why do you think this period of ‘mentoring’, one-on-one training is necessary?” “Put simply: it is not.” “So, the whole procedure is for you to study me, personally, and assimilate my traits, mannerisms et cetera? To, in all intents and purposes, become me.” “I fail to understand the meaning or logic of the question. I am already you. I am more you than you ever were, even in your youth, the days before you became employed at the corporation. I would’ve thought that much was obvious.” On their return to work, the Replicant took up from where it had left off before their lunch break. Without an exchange of words, it activated the belt conveyor and began to assemble circuit boards at the same breakneck speed. At a loss as to what to do or say, Campbell simply immersed himself in his own work duties, working harder and faster than he had at any time in the last three or four years. Hours passed without him noticing it. “Fine work today,” said the floor manager, as the machines shut down at the end of the shift. “Impressive figures.” As they swept and tidied the area in and around the workstation, Campbell couldn’t help but ask the Replicant a little more about his life at the facility. “And what do you do in the evenings?” “Why, I participate in community activities, of course.” “‘Community activities?’” Campbell asked, as if he didn’t know what the Replicant was referring to: further education in a wide range of ‘specifically work-related’ subjects, physical conditioning training, team-building exercises in the nearby recreational facility and surrounding woodland. “Would you be interested in accompanying me?” “Erm, no, no,” said Campbell. “I have a few things to do this evening.” Over the next week, Campbell noticed some alarming irregularities, things which made him look at the Replicant in a completely different, highly suspicious light. One morning, he walked into the staff changing room and found the Replicant deep in conversation with Rivera. When the two men (or one man and one replicant) noticed Campbell’s presence, they stopped talking immediately and broke away from each other. Later that afternoon, the Replicant disappeared moments after their official lunch break had begun. When Campbell entered the canteen alone, he saw the unit sitting at a table with a group of other G-Sector manual workers. “I’m sorry, Niles,” said the Replicant when Campbell approached their table, tray in hand. “But there doesn’t appear to be any space for you at this particular dining area. You will have to find an alternative table on which to eat your meal.” Like a young child prohibited from joining in with older boys at play, Campbell could do nothing but skulk away, feeling spurned, insulted, because clearly, if the men shoved up slightly, there was enough space for another worker to sit down. Surprisingly, or worryingly from Campbell’s point of view, when he visited the social club the following evening, he found the Replicant holding court at the bar, surrounded by co-workers, regaling them with what looked like a highly amusing and convoluted anecdote. This took Campbell aback. The Replicant was clearly networking, schmoozing with other employees of his classification, making friends, including himself in G-Sector’s busy social calendar, something Campbell had ceased to do many years ago. It was then that he started to question the true nature of the work trial itself, whether his selection for synthetic replacement had been solely down to his poor performance figures. Or whether, perhaps, it was his general attitude towards the core values his superiors attempted to inculcate in their underlings, how he had always been seen as an outsider, a loner, someone who didn’t really want to mix, fit in, be part of a team, someone who enjoyed his own time and insular leisure pursuits. To compound an already unsettling situation, Campbell overheard two colleagues – non-descript manuals employed in the distribution centre – talking as they came out of the toilets. “That Niles Campbell,” said one, chuckling, “the new guy, the rising light of G-Sector, he sure is some storyteller, a real character. I don’t think I’ve laughed this much in years.” From that day on, Campbell remained taciturn and distant whenever in the Replicant’s company. As a result, a strange, tetchy atmosphere now defined their working days. On either side of the slow-moving belt conveyor, each attended to their individual circuit boards. In the mornings, they exchanged nothing more than a formal nod before they began their duties. At lunchtimes, they went their separate ways: the Replicant joined his newfound friends and Campbell ate alone. In the evenings, when they took their leave of each other, Campbell invented all kinds of excuses – fictitious errands, phantom toilet visits, wholly unnecessary repair work (usually down on his hands and knees) – anything to avoid having to say goodbye to the synthetic version of himself he had come to despise. Nineteen days into the trial period, something as curious as anything that had happened since the Replicant came into his life took place. As Campbell headed back to his living space following another hugely productive day on the factory floor, Rivera sidled up alongside him. “Keep walking,” he said, in wildly overdramatic tones. “Don’t look over your shoulder. Make like we’re just two colleagues leaving off work for the day.” “What’s this all about?” Campbell whispered. “You, the Replicant, everything.” “I don’t understand.” “Nor do I, nor does anyone.” Rivera let out a bitter-sounding chuckle. “Yesterday, I looked over your fortnightly productivity sheets. Whilst you might not be aware of it, you’re almost neck and neck with that synthetic bastard.” “What?” “That’s right, Niles. I couldn’t for the life of me understand it. For months, years even, you’d let things slip to such a degree that you were selected for what can only best be described as ‘decommissioning’. Your situation couldn’t have been bleaker. For that reason, the other guys in G-Sector became increasingly hostile towards you. We thought that you’d brought this on all of us, that if only you’d have applied yourself, if you’d have worked a little harder, then senior management would never have dreamed of replacing us with a new synthetic workforce. And all of this has taken place in less than three weeks!” And he was right; about everything. Although Campbell had barely given it a second thought (the way he saw it, no matter how hard he worked, a decision regarding his future had already been taken), he knew, through professional instinct and long experience, that he had been working at an incredible rate, wildly exceeding his daily work quotas. In the evenings, he found himself perusing official corporate literature for the first time in years, learning of new technological advances, changes to state legislation, job opportunities (he even filled out an application form for an official transfer, even though he knew his position would very probably be terminated soon). And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d read or done any sketches in the evenings or at break-times, when he had last picked up a book or pencil, even. Whereas before, the plot of a good novel or sketching of a fine picture would set him alight, now he felt distant, removed, as if from himself, from the very things which gave his grey, monotonous existence meaning. He was, to all intents and purposes, a model employee now. “Okay, okay,” he said, coming to his senses. “But what does this all mean?” “I’m not sure. For it will take a herculean effort on your behalf to better your current production rates, to edge ahead of the Replicant. But” – Rivera hesitated – “but you’ve got to try, Niles, really try. It might not just be your head on line here. It might be the whole sector, the whole facility.” “You don’t know that,” said Campbell, feeling the full weight of the proposition, the responsibility he now bore. “Nobody does.” The final two days of the trial presented Campbell with another set of puzzling anomalies. For he noticed a discernible slackening in the Replicant’s productivity; its work rate. Whereas before, it toiled unceasingly, completing each circuit board at lightning speed, it now broke off every now and then and stared around the factory floor, watching its colleagues at work, perhaps even daydreaming to a certain extent. And this struck Campbell so starkly because it reminded him of himself a decade or so into his tenure at the facility. After so many years of monotonous toil, when he came to realise that workers of his classification had little or no chance of advancement, he became listless, demotivated, he sought distraction in books and artwork, his thoughts were dominated by what he might read or draw during his free time in the evenings. Why was the synthetic human displaying all the slack, disinterested characteristics Campbell had succumbed to, he couldn’t have said: complacency, a minor malfunction, defective memory implant? At the end of their very last shift, the Replicant broke the uncommunicative pattern that had built up between them over the last two weeks. “I would just like to say that it has been a pleasure working with you. Hopefully – and this is my sincerest wish – you have come to realise that when two motivated operatives work side by side, they not only learn from each other but inspire each other to greater heights. I hope you have enjoyed the experience, and hold no bitterness towards me or what the future holds. For these last twenty-one days, you have finally become an asset to the organisation. That, my friend – and I also hope that you can see me as that: a friend – is something to be proud of; something they can never take away from you.” As unexpected (and hugely insulting) as this impromptu speech had been, what was even more unexpected was the hand the Replicant thrust forward. So unexpected, Campbell found himself reaching out and exchanging the most bizarre of handshakes. For the Replicant’s palm was limp, moist and clammy to the touch, like that of a man completely unsure of himself, the situation. And for a synthetic form of life, possessed of such confidence and assurance in every aspect of his synthetic existence, that didn’t ring at all true. “I will see you in the Chief Directorate’s office in half an hour.” *** “Outstanding work,” said the Chief Directorate, studying one productivity chart after another. “That’s the real beauty of research in the field: unexpected but hugely rewarding findings.” He tossed the last report aside and fixed his dark brooding eyes first on Campbell then on the Replicant, seated in two visitors’ chair on the other side of the desk. “Do you know how much development and trialling of the new Wallace 300 series has cost the corporation?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Do you know why we invest so much money in such projects? Because if we don’t, one of our competitors will. And there’s no way we can let that happen.” He got to his feet and started to pace the room. “But you’ll be pleased to know, gentlemen, that the experiment has been an unqualified success. We have learned something new and very important: fear is the key. If you tell an ordinary, simple-minded man that he has three weeks to live, what does he do?” Once again, he didn’t wait for an answer. “With passion, zeal, he sets out to do all the things he never had the courage to do before he learned of his fate. He sets out to do exactly what you have done, Campbell – worked like an animal, proving why you were employed by the corporation in the first place. So, well done. You’ve opened our eyes to something that has been staring us in the face for decades. And in the process, saved the corporation billions. “This, what we like to call ‘human factor’, has often proved baffling to us scientific folk. How can we motivate our workers to work longer hours for less renumeration, how can we make them go above and beyond the call of duty? In the olden days, they tried ideological means – the creation of a workers’ state, where everyone is equal, or a nation driven by the selfish pursuit of individual happiness, material gain, greed – but neither social paradox went far enough. No. Fear is the key. Only if their existence is threatened will the individual comply. “Due to our findings, we now propose to scale back our operation considerably, producing only around ten Wallace 300 models per year. Whenever productivity at any given facility is down, we will simply create what we now call ‘The Campbell Narrative’. We will select the manual worker with the lowest rate of productivity and threaten to replace him with a replicant. The three-week trial period proved perfect, duration-wise. Yes. In six to twelve months, if this data is correct, we should see a 3.5% increase in productivity – nationwide. That, gentlemen, disregarding the billions already spent on the Wallace 300 project is pure alchemy. So again, well done. You may not have got the result either of you wanted, but you have performed a great service for the greater good of the corporation. And for that you should both be very proud.” Campbell and the Replicant shared a quick, confused glance. “But – but what does that mean, sir?” asked Campbell. “In regards to the trial, the winner, to who is now to continue in the role of Niles Campbell.” “It means there is no winner, it means you will both be liquidated this very hour.” “What?” cried the Replicant. “But I –” “Don’t cry about it,” the Chief Directorate snapped at him. “You know your emotions are counterfeit.” “But surely, sir,” said Campbell. “There must be another way, a better way. We, after all, as you yourself just testified, have performed to the highest of standards. We’re an asset to the organisation, its lifeblood in many ways.” “We know that, Campbell, and it’s unfortunate – I, personally, feel terrible about the whole situation – but if we return you to the factory floor, the other G-Sector grunts will know that the trial was bogus, an experiment. It really was a lose-lose situation for you. Impossible. If you hadn’t have performed so well, you’d have been liquidated in the exact same fashion.” “But why does that Replicant have to go?” “Because it proved faulty; subject to what we call ‘wandering mind’ syndrome; it became far too intuitive and acquisitive for its own good. Neither of which we can tolerate. He will be dismantled and recycled.” The side door slid open, and into the room walked six hulking, heavily armed security guards, the likes of which patrolled the facility’s perimeter fence. “Please don’t struggle,” the Chief Directorate said to the two most expendable members of his workforce. “Resistance, as you now know, is futile.” Neil Randall is a novelist and short story writer. His latest book, A Dark Day in the White City (Next Chapter Press) was released in April of this year. His shorter fiction and poetry have been published in the U.K., U.S., India, Australia, and Canada. Further news and samples of his work can be viewed at: https://narandall.blogspot.com/, including links to his new online review show Randall Reads…where the author reviews a book each week that made a big impression on him, and help shaped him as a writer.

We ate them on a muggy Spring afternoon. I skipped out from work saying I had a legal appointment, not entirely untrue. Sweat trickled down my belly and tickled my underarms during the two-block walk. I hoped I didn’t smell. Stepping through the door was like entering another era. White tiled walls gleamed, a long bar with men shucking oysters stretched down one side of the front room, and a row of small tables ran the length of the other. One table, strewn with crumpled napkins dotted with sauce and sweaty glasses of limoncello, held three little old men who looked like they stepped out of a Martin Scorsese movie; another table held a twenty-something couple, their lithe bodies leaning toward each other, plates of crusty oyster loaves waiting to be eaten. Behind the bar, a small window a/c unit blew frigid air like life depended on it - and it probably did. I stepped in front of the flow, hoping it would dry the fabric sticking to my back while I sipped an Abita, the tangy brew soothing my parched throat. The bell on the door jangled as he walked in fifteen minutes late, cool as a nectar cream snowball. He wore a seersucker suit and a litigator smirk. A waiter greeted him deferentially and whisked us off to a table in the back room. I sat facing the front door (always have an escape plan) where a clot of rumpled New Orleanians waited, jostling for a shot of a/c. My shaky hands beneath the table were in a burden-of-proof sweaty clench. I had to lean in to hear him above the increasing chatter and clatter around us (Do I smell?) while his twisty conversation made my stomach gurgle as much as the aroma of frying fresh seafood rolling through the restaurant after having rolled in Gulf waves a few hours earlier. I was thankful for the cicada-loud chorus echoing the length of the room. Fresh drinks and an ice-laden platter of glistening raw oysters arrived looking like milky not-quite-full moons. I speared an oyster, placed it on a cracker with a healthy dollop of hot sauce, and placed it in my mouth, a burst of brine and sea breath filling my senses. As our eyes met, he snorted derisively, picked up an oyster, and slurped it down. Most people suck down the oyster unadorned, but I like the crunch of crackers mixed with the soft, salty flesh even if some think it’s a touristy way of eating them. I felt my face pinking like I’d been caught breaching some precious culinary law. Then I thought, Smartass lawyer. I calmly grabbed another saltine and settled in for a stink. Charlotte Hamrick is author of Offset Melodies, a chapbook of micro memoir and hybrid prose included in ELJ Editions’ Grieving Hope collection (2025). She is the founding editor of SugarSugarSalt Magazine and Managing Editor for Reckon Review. She writes from New Orleans where she drinks lots of coffee and wrangles a menagerie of rescued pets. More at charhamrick.com.

Sprung Uncles “Oh shit, Uncle Cal. What’s the emergency?? Is my mom ok?” The kid has a permanently dazed look, like he’s high or he was dropped on his head. Dropped on his head is more likely given his parental situation. Still, he’s gullible enough, which is all I need for today. I tell Tyler it’s nothing to worry about, just a fun little adventure I thought he wouldn’t want to miss. “That’s a relief. I figured you might have come ‘cause someone died.” It’s spooky how this kid is always asking about whether someone’s dead. “Thanks for springing me. You know that phrase “springing”? Captain Jack Sparrow uses it in Pirates of the Caribbean. I love those movies, don’t you?” Bambi lets the boy watch too much TV, but at least it keeps him quiet. I’m thinking about how to explain to Tyler what I need when he starts sneezing all over my dash. I just had the Corvette detailed and the last thing I want on the walnut inlay is a spray of the kid’s snot. “Excuse me. Shit, I still can’t stop sneezing. Mr. Childress had me clapping out erasers and all that dust has been bothering my allergies. Childress didn’t even say “God Bless You”, he just shouted “Jesus! You sneeze like you’re being shot,” which is funny because he doesn’t know that I’ve actually been shot. Isn’t that hilarious? Remember when Becky and I were just 6 and 7 and she shot me?” I remind Tyler that I was probably still locked up when that happened. “Oh, well, she nailed me right in the calf and it hurt like a bitch but I sure didn’t make a sound like I was sneezing when I got shot. Anyway, that Childress guy is such an asswipe. He doesn’t know shit about shooting or sneezing. But you get it. It’s a good thing the school doesn’t know you’re not my real uncle…” I cut him off to get into it. It seems like Tyler’s following, but it’s hard to tell what’s getting through. Between his dopey expression and the uneven bowl cut Bambi’s given him, he looks pathetic. If he wasn’t always cock blocking me when I’m trying to hook up with his mom, I might feel sorry for the kid. But, nope. It will be easier with him out of the picture. “Yeah, sure. I know Gilbert’s,” the kid says, all proud sounding that he knows the place. “That’s the pawn shop on Glenview, right? That’s where Dad sold Grandad’s Civil War rifle so we could buy the second car. Wheels are more important than history. Amiright?” This is just pathetic. His dad didn’t buy shit and I bet Tyler never even got a ride in that second car before his dad took off. “Don’t you think that’s true, Uncle Cal? Gotta keep moving, right? I know I’m fixing to get out of this shithole. Ever since that college fair in the gym, I’ve been extra motivated.” The boy is kidding himself if he thinks he’s going to college. Even if he could get in, there’s no one around to pay for it. I’d pitch in if he could go now, but there’s no way I’m waiting two years for him to graduate. “Actually, could you drop me at the library?” Jesus! This kid and his A.D.D. I remind Tyler we have a mission to complete. “Ok. Yeah, right. No problem. You can drop me after the pawn shop.” I do my best to describe the store’s layout and how he should walk in after me so we don’t look like we came together and then I start to tell him about the necklace. “Oh damn. Diamond-encrusted. Sweet! Is it like one of them rapper crosses?” I tell him to focus and try to figure just how badly the kid could screw things up. “And it’s just resting there on the mannequin? Right out in the open?” Tyler’s not the brightest bulb, but I catch an edge of nervousness in his voice so I lay it on real thick. “Oh sweet. You’re helping test his security? That’s actually pretty smart… And it won’t be actual stealing? We’re just playing a little joke?” I tell him to take the necklace off while I’m talking to the owner and slip it in his pocket and then head straight back down Main and not to stop walking south until I catch up to him with the car. No matter how this plays out, it’ll be a win for me. Tyler’s quiet for an unusually long time, and then I hear his nose whistle as he turns toward me. “Sure thing, Uncle Cal. Sounds awesome.” Inspecting the Damage “What’s the matter?” “Nothing.” Frank throws the car keys on the counter and yanks open the fridge. He stares at the military precision with which Pauline has lined up the milk, the almond milk and the low-sugar orange juice. “Are you looking for something?” “Do we have any beer left?” “Do you see any?” Frank shrugs, but Pauline continues. “Did you buy any?” “Don’t start, Pauline.” “Well, what’s up? You come home, you don’t even give me a kiss, and you’re acting... strange.” Frank turns to face her. Pauline is almost a foot shorter, but her force is undeniable. “Someone must have backed into me.” “What!? Shit.” Pauline puts her hands to her mouth, and Frank notices she has a new nail color. The same blue as the liquor store’s neon sign that flashes Cold Beer. “Not the new car!” “It’s hardly new.” “You know what I mean. New to us.” Pauline slumps onto a kitchen stool. “Jesus. This is all we need.” “It’s not that…” “How bad, Frank?” Frank pulls a half-drunk bottle of vodka from the freezer and fills a tumbler. “So you’re just going to start drinking now?” He takes a sip. “There’s a headlight out. Maybe some denting on the right-hand side.” Pauline marches toward the door. “I’m going to see for myself.” His wife had come across as soft-spoken, even fragile, when they’d first met, but Frank soon discovered the explosive anger that could power Pauline’s tiny body. After listening to her footsteps clomping down the stairs, he finds the joint he keeps in a Ziploc bag at the back of the kitchen cabinet. Standing on their condo’s balcony, Frank watches Pauline down by the car. She waves her phone’s flashlight across the mangled front, kneels for a closer look. Her blonde bob glows in the reflected light like a halo hovering over her skeletal body. As Frank pulls on the joint, the orange tip brightens and burns like the setting sun over their distant honeymoon. He wonders how much of the joint he can finish before Pauline returns. The condo door opens and slams shut. Frank stubs out the tip of the joint on the balcony’s railing and stuffs the half-smoked joint into his pocket. “Are you sure someone hit you, Frank? How would they have hit the front of the car if you were parked?” “You know I like to back into my spots.” “Was there any kind of note?” A gust of wind whips across the balcony. “There was no note.” Frank tries to pass, but Pauline won’t budge from her spot in the middle of the open sliding glass door. “What parking lot was it?” “What difference does it make?” “Someone could have seen.” Frank drops the lighter, listens to its cheap black plastic bounce and scatter on the balcony cement. He leans over to retrieve it and stumbles. Lightheaded, he lowers himself into a deck chair. “Are you alright?” Pauline kneels in front of him. Stares up into his sweaty face. A wave of nausea forces Frank to put his head between his legs. And then he feels it: Pauline’s bird-boned hand fluttering to rest between his shoulder blades. Her hand is deadweight. “What’s the matter, Frank?” He wonders if there are cameras at that corner. Frank buries his head in his palms, still hearing it, seeing it—the thud of the car, a muffled blow like the sound of a boxing glove hitting a bag, the rag doll body in the rearview, spinning toward the sidewalk. He hopes the woman who stepped out - that woman whose startled black pupils keep flashing in the headlights of his mind - he hopes that woman has as much fight in her as Pauline. Coleman Bigelow's latest flash fiction collection "Man's Best Friends” digs into the strange, tender, and sometimes absurd ways people and animals collide. His stories have appeared recently in Brilliant Flash Fiction, Cleaver, Ghost Parachute, Gooseberry Pie, and The Ekphrastic Review. You can find more at his website: ColemanBigelow.com

Postcard Brief Candle Dear William, the weather's unbeautiful and I wish you were here, because I need to strut and fret a little. I know you know this loss, so father to father I want to confess that tonight, under this moon, for a moment I was unsure how old he would be. Did you ever lose days, confuse the years. Did you ever wish to sleep and wake pillowed on another life? Far away an owl calls. On nights like this, it's the same way his empty room calls. When he died I was hollowed, braced for the agonies to follow, for how my life would drag on though I believed it had ended. Brief candle? Let seasons and cicada fulfill this miserable premise. Not our sons and daughters. In those early days I imagine you, for the first time in your life, briefly, at a loss for words. They say that is when you turned away from comedies to tragedies. What didn't kill me has left me weaker, not stronger; left me fearful of the years to come, years pregnant with the losses to come, and the pale, wax-smooth scar across my wife's stomach, like a seam of ice that never thaws, always reminds. Before I go, here's a joke: What did the octave say to the sestet? You complete me. Our griefs rhyme, William. We should get together, compare notes. Like: does happiness, feeling happy, sometimes feel like a punishment. That's twisted, right? Hey, don't be a stranger. No one is watching over us, and the angels are faking it. K.

I hit the undercarriage with that purple foam and let it all soak in. Customer already outside leaning against a tree, watching his Audi like a hawk. Like I’m gonna heist it or something. Shit, rich people problems. I raise my hand high, wave it around a bit. Ready. The signal. We all have our own. Some do a loud whistle (but I could never whistle too good). Others pump their fist in the air like they were bouncing at the club. I like to keep it simple. Customer moves in. Does that strut around the car, leaning in to check out every nook and cranny. Tries to wipe away a paint stain next to the gas cap. Then finally, the slow nod. They all do that stupid slow nod. Like they’re sizing up one of them hookers down on Post. “Looks good,” he says, slapping my hand like we’re buds. Which we’re not. Nowhere close. Slips a single bill into it, then hops into the driver side. I’ve gotten good at guessing the tip. One bill. The way it feels in my hand. Asshole’s demeanor. Fiver. Right on. You can put me on one of them game shows. Call it Count the Money. Or Guess the Bill. Game show network, some shit. Those old ladies would eat it up. See, ideas like that. Might wanna be an entrepreneur. I tell Briana that all the time and she giggles like I got food dripping down my chin. Creamed corn or something. It’s the funniest thing in the world. Reggaeton cuts out, I hear the sound of snarling guitars, big heavy drums. White people music. Shout at the Devil. Hot for Teacher. It’s all the same to me. Three p.m. now and the parade through the conveyor has slowed down. Alejandro and that new dude sit on the curb, drinking their Poland Springs and smacking each other on the arm. New dude with the teardrop tat under his eye, always a snarl on his face, muttering some shit under his breath. Same dude who pulls me aside the other day after the milf in the short brown skirt hops into her Lexus. Whispers something under his breath. His voice so low I can’t make it out but don’t need to. That cock of his eyebrow. Half-smirk. The way he smacks his fist into the palm of his hand. Alejandro’s hooting me over, but fuck that. Got business to attend to. Move out toward the road. Where the office can’t see me. Pull out my cell (big no-no while on duty). But I’m en descanso. Fan Duel. $82 balance but no worries. Six games going off tonight. NBA. Don’t know a shit about it other than Lebron kicks ass. Bronny, no bueno. But this app is easy. Been clicking around for two weeks and that ten dollar deposit’s been growing since. Entrepreneurial spirit. Briana, baby, just watch. Your king has arrived. Then I ring her. My usual call. Nothing. Voicemail. Hey hey, tell me a secret, she giggles, and maybe I even call ya ass back. Click. Briana. Mi amor, I think. Twenty-one. Year older than me. Big hips. Tiny waist. Just like I like ‘em. That stupid pierced eyebrow. Betty Page tat on her toned arm that she loves to hang out the window of my Cavalier while I drive fast and we pretend to have no problems. Plenty of ‘em now. But I don’t want to think of that. Just think of her locrio (Bri’s abuela’s recipe) served piping hot onto my plate. Two heaping bowls, bottle of Corona, and I’m done for the night. Or the way she calls me Papi when I give it to her hard, bouncing that fat ass on top of me like she’s one of them pogo sticks. But lately it’s that other thing. Bump’s growing bigger every day. She won’t even wear her crop tops anymore. Oversized sweaters and baggy jeans. Bump’s almost as big as our debt. See I’m a cash-only, spend-it-when-you-have-it kinda guy but Bri…shit. Can’t even answer her cell anymore, otherwise them debt collectors be on her like flies on shit. But she always answers my calls. Where she at—them intrusive thoughts coming at me again. Damn, kid, you shoulda seen ya girl before you met her. She was for them streets. Alejandro would chide. And I’d smack him on his arm so hard he’d come in the next day with a welt the size of Texas. Fuck him. Fuck ‘em all. “So check it, I’m paying you to wash cars not jack off in the road,” Danny’s gravelly voice sweeps in like a hard breeze. “Mi amigo.” Always says the words wrong. Like who says Amigo. What’s this 8th grade Spanish class? Call me carnal. Compadre. Vato. Sucio. Act like you mean it, dude. Danny Brett. Forty-seven year old ex-cop that owns the place. Keeps his hombres in line. Us boys call him sarge. Because he was a cop and he runs this place like a drill sergeant. He’s not a bad dude. But just another man that has everything I don’t. While I’m the one who gets my hands dirty. Come home callused and shivering. Can’t even soak in a hot bath because the gas is off. So I just nod, say nothing, what does it matter and walk back. Danny usually in the back room with those other paisans. The three of them playing cards. Hearts, some shit. Danny yelping about shooting the moon. Alejandro sticking his ass against the door last time we hear them. I’ll show him the moon he says and we crack up. Close to quitting time that night and that’s when we get the idea. Teardrop the first one to think of it. No surprise. But it sounds good to the rest of us. A new car flows through. Acura. Old school. Integra or something, I’m next in line. Black dude with a backwards Yankee cap daps me as he steps out and I start scrubbing. Purple foam, what else. “Tonight,” Alejandro whispers as he waxes up some shitty Toyota. “In or out?” See there’s always choices. Mama used to tell me that. Back in Todos Santos. When I was just one of those little boys with little boy problems. Not worrying about Bri’s debt, my shitty job that barely covers rent. Rent for our little basement apartment going up again next month. And now another mouth. When I can barely feed myself and Bri. Three, forget about it. Even thinking about it makes my heart sputter. I’m flashing that app. Same balance, dummy. Games are later. Tonight we break $150 then I show Bri. Then she believes in me. All so simple, right fuckface. So I just nod as I wipe down wet patches. Homeboy’s Drake mix blasting out of Bose speakers. Chrome rims glistening. *** So now, it’s the three of us with those stupid ski masks over our faces. Teardrop in black. Me gray. Alejandro can’t find a ski mask so he’s got one of those wrestler masks on. Super Destroyer II or some shit. Looks like a kid playing dress-up but it’ll do. Can’t take chances. Danny’s got cameras in every corner of the shop. Alarm’s disengaged. I’m smart. Took every opportunity to ask Danny questions when he was closing up. Caught the routine, also caught them alarm digits. Alejandro’s standing by the door. Lookout or something. Kid’s still afraid of his shadow. Hands in his pocket like he’s Enzo the Baker, while Teardrop does the heavy lifting. Cash register’s wiped in seconds. Couple hundred bucks. Kid’s money. Teardrop’s grinning like his Sing Sing dreams are finally coming to life. In the back. Behind the locked door, to which I have a key, the safe stands like a sentry. Teardrop does his thing. It’s all moving fast but easier than even that gambling app. Like when I took the money from those kids playing dominos. Felt bad for a moment but didn’t bat an eye. Anyway, I can’t help it. Maybe I want her to share in my excitement. Feel part of it. Or just believe in me. El mero mero. So I click the button. Try her again. But nothing….tell me a secret. Yeah, I got one for you, Bri. Just pick up the damn phone. Fifteen minutes, lock’s picked. Guys like Teardrop must learn that in Safecracking 101. Prison tricks paying off left and right. Teardrop stuffs bundles of bills into a duffel bag. “Ven, Ven!” he yells to me. The two of us working faster. Way faster than we ever cleaned cars, until Alejandro appears in the little room too. His hands shaking. Piss stain on his pants. “Guys,” he points to the front door. Danny’s standing there. The look on his face? Anger? Surprise? No, that’s not right. It’s disgust. One of the big paisans right next to him. I know that look too well. Same look Mama gave me when I told her I was dropping out. Sixteen and spent most of my days glued to my PS4. Fortnite, smoking blunts, drinking forties, chasing dimes. Look where it got me. Danny makes a run for us. Pulls something out of his pocket. Metallic glint. Sharp edge. Ex-cop. Not many good choices. Big Paisan’s got his fists out. Ready to explode. Go all Boom Boom Mancini on his buddy’s punk employees. Throw up our hands or bum rush them? I glance over to Alejandro who’s shaking his head, then to Teardrop…. The bullet’s loud and pierces my ears. Danny drops to the ground like a bag of bricks. Another shot explodes the window, shards of glass flying out. Then two more. And the big Paisan falls right next to him. Right on his big gut. I look over and can’t help thinking of one of those cartoons. The way the dead guy lands and the hero runs off. Then the credits roll. Teardrop drops the gun. And he’s off. Fuck. I run too. Run as fast as I could as long as I could until finally stopping somewhere off in the distance. Empty street. A few parked cars. Dark houses. I look around. Nothing. No one. My phone’s vibrating in my pocket. Pull it out. Bri. “Baby,” I huff, out-of-breath, “Where are you?” “I’m out, Juan. And I ain’t coming back.” “Whatcha mean?” She don’t say nothing for a bit. Like she clicked off. “What?” “It ain’t yours either.” “Fuck,” I say but I’m talking to no one. She’s gone. Then heavy footsteps. “Fuck man, what just happened?” Alejandro says, wheezing like he’d just run a marathon. I drop to my knees. Head falls back. “Where’s the money, man?” Don’t even need to ask. Teardrop. The duffel. Chance in hell, we’ll ever see him again. “We’re so fucked,” Alejandro’s saying. Over and over again. After a while it just blends in with it all. The wind. The crickets. Screeching tires in the distance. Alejandro’s small words. Then sirens. I’m frozen. Want to run but where. Want to slap Alejandro. Fucked going over and over like a stuck record. I click on my phone. That app. Balance $145. Well. Could be worse. “Fuck we gonna do, man?” Alejandro’s voice soft like silk. But I don’t answer. Just walk off. And keep clicking. Warriors by eleven in the late game. Sounds like a winner. Jesse Binger is a fiction writer from New Jersey. His debut novel The Penitent Hours is currently on submission. His work appears in or is forthcoming at Rock and a Hard Place, Cowboy Jamboree, Bending Genres, Punk Noir, Stanchion and elsewhere.

We’re seated at a round table so I can’t escape my sister-in-law’s sightline, can’t lean back in my chair so I disappear between two cousins, there’s no bad seat in the house my father-in-law would say; I contemplate a posture that most closely mimics invisibility, staving off the inevitable until everyone else has answered Carol’s how’ve you been like air released from overblown balloons. Like an ill-timed waitress she comes around to me while my face is stuffed with fried cheddar, voice muffled more than usual—this is my fault (decibels, remember? talk UP)—and at 2:51pm according to the cuckoo clock it begins with “How’s your work life these days are you busy at the office or do things slow down this time of year I can’t remember if your schedule is anything like mine” “Great, I had a good review last—” “And I saw on Facebook you got another poem published didn’t you” I had three published recently in different journals so I’m not sure which announcement she’s referring to so I attempt clarity with “Well—” And my husband answers—a verbal cattle prod, a loophole in his empty promises to resign as self-appointed spokesman (because I’m SO QUIET, see)—as if I need aid in discussing my own life, with “Didn’t you get accepted to some anthology recently” And I recall my father-in-law’s brilliant demeanor for times like these: a wide grin this side of gnashy in tandem with a gruff chortle that said I’m tickled by the level of pain-in-the-ass you’ve achieved but I fail to find the path to amusement so I counter with “That was a reprint, so I don’t know which—” “It’s great that you’re getting so many things in magazines, what are you writing now, another poem or a play, I can’t remember what you told me last time so are you still working on that” I have no clue what that even refers to in her question but if I take one more second to respond my husband will plow in with “It’s a fantasy story right, hon” nod nod And before I can scream she’s all “Fantasy! I didn’t know you could do that, congrats, what about you, Laura”—to my niece, startling her away from her phone screen—“maybe I should get all Grandma Nellie on you and ask are you seeing anyone special” And she winks and Laura beams like an A-lister before weaving a colorful tapestry about her cohorts back in The Big Apple and I flop back, spent, cheese curds growing rubbery in their dish. It’s only 2:53pm but my shift is finally over and Carol and I can both dust off our hands. Su Mielke writes by a window where she can spy on her neighbors.

We’re silhouettes on a mudflap - flashing go go girls on neon signs - naked daughters of Eve. The bible proclaims Eve was made from Adam’s rib, the curved slender bone that protects his heart, blames Eve because she talked with the snake and ate the apple. We know Eve’s shame - not that we’ve read the bible, heathen queens of the night that we are. We’ve talked to snakes - we’ve listened to them too. These conversations had nothing to do with fruit. * Every morning, we watch the snakes sun themselves on rocks. Later, as the air cools the snakes slither back inside - leaving the light behind. In dusk we conceal our blood red hearts within our jagged shells - our pearls remain buried under our slippery oysters. In the smoke-thick air where bodies are sold, it’s always night - dark as permission. In the dark we’re Lilith - Adam’s secret - his first wife - his nocturnal beast. Everyone said Lilith was a whore - but she was a demon. Like her - we’ve learned to tuck our forked tails between our legs - hide the flames that live inside our mouths - stay inside a small black hole. * Mornings we repent before going onstage. We clean the small black holes of our bodies with wipes made for babies - the babies whose breath Lilith supposedly stole. We cover our bruises with skin-colored cream. We spray ourselves with perfume that smells of peaches. We smile. We remember to see ourselves as the audience sees us. The snakes and the rakes and the jakes. They see us as forbidden fruit. They see us as whores. They see us as demons. * When we eat - we avoid the bruised flesh of the apple - although sour tasting - we prefer the truth. There’s never enough. The truth is - Our legs, our ass, our smile. The truth is - We’re still in the same small black hole. We check our teeth for apple flesh - then we dance - the serpent coiled at our feet. From the author: On The Seventh Day We Shall Not Rest is an exploration of the sex work experience - of being part of a mythology and a collective. Elissa’s writing has been featured in The Rumpus, CRAFT, Atticus Review, Bust Magazine, The Forge Literary Magazine, Tangled Locks and others. She won the CRAFT Literary essay contest and the Silver Rose Flash Fiction prize. Her prose has been nominated for the Best of the Net and a Pushcart Prize and listed as Notable by Best American Essays 2025. She’s the recipient of a Creative Individual grant from the Mass Cultural Council. Whore Mother Crone, her memoir in progress, about being a sex worker and mother, was a finalist for the Kenyon Review's Developmental Editing Fellowship. When not writing or reading, she practices real estate, serves on the board of her local theatre, performs improv comedy, and builds bonfires with her witchy friends.

Obscure, Iridescent My love is a multicoloured, sparkly thing, resides upon tree, below butterfly’s underwing; concealed in the pattern of starling and sparrow flight, serene through the ages, revealed when the moment right. It’s there on the breeze, with each first flake of winter snow, approaches and leaves as it pleases (thinks no one knows), freewheels through the ether, forms various cloud constructs, expands under surface, still trickles down mountain bluff, cascades round the river, remaining, since long ago, obscure, iridescent thing better known as love. Through the Mists of Ancient Glen Just be yourself, however hard that seems when every signpost points the other way; surveyors of forlorn, forgotten schemes still call to memory, all dreams betray. Ignoring cadence of such hollow cries, resisting every urge to shuffle feet, let daytime find the whos and wheres and whys; as head meets pillow, know the day complete. There is a place I journey, now and then, where I no longer care about the past, secluded through the mists of ancient glen, relearned by neither wand, nor wizard staff; in future years, returned to once again, still penitent, though warming to the task. Tales to Remember Today, I forgot to be angry as morning sun disappeared her face, perceiving neither wisdom, nor grace in wallow. Debunked destructive intentions when the raindrops began to flow, this afternoon’s washing soaked to pristine foundations. By lunchtime, my roses smelled sweeter on her dulcet rays’ return, inviting smaller creatures, likewise emboldened. Wriggling, twitching, from openings sparser, deeper, we arrived on our scene, reconvened (though in separate ways). Spun tales to remember come moribund, cloud-filled days. Lawrence Moore was something of a dilettante until he reached the age of forty. Since nestling upon poetry's bough, his work has appeared in a number of publications including Roi Fainéant Press, Fahmidan Journal and The Madrigal. He has a new full-length poetry collection, This Joyful Interlude, published by Jane's Studio Press in November 2025.